It was rare that a woman of Cythera’s character was the object of a truly vile curse, though. When Croy had met her—back when he was still employed as the Burgrave’s bodyguard—there was only a single tendril of curling vine then, and that disappeared up her sleeve. She might have gone a lifetime without acquiring much more in the way of images, had she not needed money. Penniless, with no skills to earn her keep, nor the willingness to prostitute herself, she had found employment where she could.

Hazoth had taken her into his service when she was still a girl. He made an amulet out of a lock of her hair, which extended the protection of her enchantment to himself. And a sorcerer like Hazoth attracted his fair share of curses—cast by his enemies, of which he had many. He compelled service from the demons of the pit. Such creatures liked not making such bargains, and once they were free of his influence, sent magic to destroy him, or to pull him down into the pit with them where they could torment him forever. Now Cythera bore the brunt of those curses. Since entering Hazoth’s service, her collection of tattoos had grown denser with each day.

Cythera’s skin crawled with magic, far too much for her to safely contain. Magic never stood still—it was pure action, pure energy, and it hated being bound or constrained. Her skin could hold an enormous magical potential but it had its limit, and once that maximum had been reached, the magic constantly sought to be discharged. The slightest jar, the most well-meaning touch, could release that magic instantly. If Croy grasped her hand in a fit of passion, if he crushed her lips with his own—it would be his end.

He had to admit it was going to make the wedding night complicated. But perhaps they could find a way to release her from her magical burden.

“Come away with me,” he said. “Tonight. Get away from the villa and meet me. We’ll be on a ship, sailing for some pleasant southern beach before he even knows you’ve left him.”

“You think it’s that simple?”

“I think it can be, if we choose it.”

She lowered her crust of bread to the table and looked at it very carefully, as if she could read the future there. Perhaps she could. “He would not allow it. I must be near him for our connection to work. He would grow wroth.”

“Let him pout! What harm can he do us? He wouldn’t dare hurt you.”